Dressing the Part
by fengirl88
Summary: Sherlock takes Lestrade clothes shopping.  Rated M for some explicit sexual content.


Title: Dressing the Part

Author: fengirl88

Rating: M for sexual content

Warnings: sexual content, pwp

Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade

Disclaimer: I don't own the BBC Sherlock or Lestrade. Probably just as well, really.

Summary: Sherlock takes Lestrade clothes shopping.

A/N: Written in the wake of elfbert's story Overwhelming Evidence, about Lestrade's inability to see his own handsomeness. Inspired also by the wardrobe genius who dresses Mr Cumberbatch's Sherlock.

**Dressing the Part**

He's always hated clothes shopping. But it's never been like _this _before.

Lestrade presses his fist against his mouth to keep from crying out. His knees are buckling, his heart is racing and he knows he can't hold out much longer.

He wonders why on earth he let Sherlock talk him into this shopping expedition in the first place. No use wondering. He knows Sherlock can talk him into _anything_.

Can't talk Lestrade into anything right now though. Busy.

Lestrade looks down dizzily at Sherlock kneeling on the changing-room floor in front of him. Sherlock on his knees, apparently careless of the havoc this will wreak on his beautifully cut trousers – _not _a thought Lestrade would usually have, this clothes shopping lark is getting to him in more ways than one. Sherlock's mouth attending exquisitely to Lestrade's aching cock, _the bastard's been practising_, Lestrade thinks, this is a _lot_ better than last time. _Fuck_.

The voice of an assistant outside the cubicle, asking if there's anything they need, anything he can help with. Lestrade can't speak, and he feels Sherlock _laughing_ against his cock. Jesus. Then there's a rush of cold air as Sherlock releases him just long enough to say "We're fine, thanks." Sounding as if nothing has happened beyond the usual trying on. Though _the usual trying on_ with Sherlock would never be anybody's idea of normal -

Sherlock returns to his labours and Lestrade tries desperately to concentrate on not making a noise. Which is _bloody _difficult, because he's so close to needing to make a _lot_ of it. And Sherlock knows it. And Lestrade knows Sherlock knows it. And Sherlock knows Lestrade knows – _oh god._

It's the Police Federation's fault really. Went and invited Lestrade to make a speech at some fancy lunch do, invitation came ages ago and in an unguarded moment he said yes, the way you do to something so far in the future you don't really believe it will happen. But it's happening next week, and Lestrade hates making speeches and _hates_ fancy lunches. And has nothing to wear.

Not literally, of course, that would be stupid. But nothing for a posh do like that. And he hates clothes shopping. Always has.

But he really shouldn't have mentioned the problem to Sherlock. Bound to lead to trouble. Leading there right this minute.

Sherlock had inspected Lestrade's entire wardrobe, pronounced it _impossible_, and insisted on a shopping expedition there and then. No use Lestrade protesting that he couldn't afford it, or that it wasn't worth it for one stupid lunch engagement. Or that he could just think up some excuse and not go after all. When Sherlock gets the bit between his teeth -

_Not _the most helpful metaphor, in the circumstances.

So here they are, in that big expensive department store Lestrade never even goes _into_, and will certainly not be going into again after today. Not unless he's wearing a blanket over his head to conceal his identity.

Sherlock had grumbled that it really ought to be Savile Row. Said it was infuriating to see a man with Lestrade's looks so determined _not _to make the most of himself. Stupid. Wasteful.

Lestrade had said Sherlock should stop talking _crap_, and anyway the answer to the Savile Row suggestion was just three words: Detective. Inspector's. Salary.

So, reluctantly, Sherlock had settled for _this _place, and picked out off-the-peg designer suits and shirts for Lestrade to try on. Had offered to come into the cubicle with Lestrade, an offer Lestrade had rejected rather forcefully. Bad enough having to go clothes shopping _at all_, never mind having bloody _Sherlock_ gawping at you while you stumble about changing your trousers and trying not to catch sight of yourself undressed in the mirror.

The clothes had felt surprisingly nice, not the sort of thing he'd usually buy himself. Silk shirt, feeling a bit odd against his skin at first, but rather pleasant. Interesting. He could see why Sherlock liked this sort of thing. That purple shirt of his, for example. Though probably best not to think of how Sherlock feels about his clothes. Or how Sherlock's clothes would feel. Or anything else to do with Sherlock and clothes and _feeling_.

_Too late_. The combination of _silk shirt_ and _Sherlock_ was already starting to work on him. Embarrassing, amongst other things. But at least Sherlock wasn't actually in there to observe Lestrade's arousal, or decide it would be fun to make it worse -

Lestrade stifled a groan. Possibly didn't stifle it quite enough.

"_Are you coming out here so I can see if that works?_" Sherlock's voice, irritated, outside the door.

Not in _that_ state he wasn't.

"Give me a minute," Lestrade said, thinking _That was __**not**__a good thing to say._

Too right it wasn't. He could hear Sherlock huffing to himself about Lestrade's slowness, his ridiculous modesty, and then saying "Oh _really_!"

Followed by the sight of Sherlock's hand coming over the cubicle door, shooting back the bolt and pulling the door open. Lestrade squeaked, grabbing for his own discarded trousers to hold against him. Sherlock was inside the cubicle now, bolting the door behind him and looking severely at Lestrade.

"You haven't taken _all this time to try on __**one**__ shirt_, have you? For goodness' _sake_, Lestrade, get a move on!"

The second suit was the right one, Sherlock said, and Lestrade didn't argue. Made him almost bearable to look at, and he doesn't like looking at himself. One of the reasons why he hates clothes shopping, always has.

Sherlock's expression suggested he thought the suit made Lestrade look rather more than bearable. In normal circumstances – whatever the fuck _those_ would be with Sherlock – being looked at like that would be rather nice, Lestrade thought. Would be better than nice. Sherlock's eyes seemed darker than usual, and there was a slight flush starting on his cheekbones.

Here and now, though, that look was bloody alarming. Was _definitely_ going to mean trouble.

"Well, better pay for this and get going, I suppose," Lestrade said hastily, trying to look away but finding he couldn't.

Couldn't move at all, in fact. Immobilized by shock at the touch of Sherlock's hands, brushing against the shirt as he slipped the jacket off Lestrade's shoulders to return it to the hanger. Brushing the silk against Lestrade's skin. Lestrade closed his eyes briefly as the sensation of slippery heat went through him. _Fuck_.

Not a good move, closing your eyes with Sherlock around. Really ought to know better by now, but he never does.

Lestrade's eyes snapped open at the feeling of Sherlock's hands on him again, now unbuttoning and unzipping the suit trousers, pulling them down and leaving Lestrade with only a silk shirt and his boxers to cover his confusion. Not anything like adequate coverage, in the circumstances. Not even from the gaze of any normal person, never mind from Sherlock with _that look_ on his face. _Oh god. _

_The images come unbidden to his mind, __**that look**__ translating itself into touch. Sherlock's fingers brushing across Lestrade's erection through his boxers, making Lestrade catch his breath and bite his lip unexpectedly hard. Fingers straying teasingly under his waistband, just grazing the head of his cock then withdrawing again so that Lestrade whimpers in frustration. Sherlock's hands sliding up the back of Lestrade's thighs, almost tickling, a sensation right on the edge of pleasure and discomfort. Making Lestrade moan, though he tries to suppress the sound. He has thought of being touched by Sherlock so many times, but he's never imagined anything quite like this. _

"Time these came off as well," Sherlock said, tugging at Lestrade's boxers with ruthless intent.

And we're back in the room. _Fuck_.

No teasing, no caressing, no fancy touches. Just shopping and sucking.

So here Lestrade is now, God help him, boxers at half-mast, beautiful not-yet-paid-for designer suit trousers round his ankles, disastrously close to coming, worrying about the noise, worrying about the _mess_, Jesus, what if he gets it on the _clothes? _And absolutely incapable of _not_ coming, in spite of all that, in spite of the humiliation, the awareness of people all around him, assistants going about their business and chatting to each other, other customers, it's all just making it _worse -_

And Sherlock knows, because he always does. And knowing that, and knowing Sherlock knows he knows it, makes it worse all over again and pushes Lestrade _right_ to the edge -

He can feel Sherlock shaking with laughter. Vibrations of it going right through him -

Lestrade shudders uncontrollably as he presses his fist harder against his mouth, groaning in spite of himself, and comes in a series of violent spasms.

After a lot of seeing stars and a lot of panting, Lestrade recovers enough to look about him. No tell-tale stains on the new clothes, thank God.

Somewhat to Lestrade's surprise, Sherlock – _obviously well brought up by Mummy or more likely Nanny_ – produces a spotlessly clean beautifully ironed white handkerchief. Wipes his own face and mouth and Lestrade's cock. Then yanks Lestrade's boxers back up and shoves the handkerchief down the front of them, which he probably _wasn't_ brought up to do. And which feels a bit weird, frankly, though Lestrade is too weak to protest.

Lestrade gets dressed in his own clothes again, fumbling as he buttons and zips himself up with shaky hands. Sherlock doesn't help. Just stands there watching him with a faintly smug expression, the bastard. Lestrade's knees are still pretty shaky, too, and the exit seems a very long way away.

Paying for the clothes takes for _ever_, and the assistant is definitely looking at him rather oddly. Sherlock continues to behave as if nothing has happened, though Lestrade catches a look from him at one point that nearly undoes him all over again.

Thank God they're out of here, just need to get the lift to the ground floor now and it'll all be over.

_Famous last words._

The lift doors are still closing when Sherlock grabs Lestrade, pushing him up against the mirrored wall. He presses his thigh between Lestrade's and pulls him close, groping his arse and kissing him hard. Lestrade struggles half-heartedly and hopes to God nobody else wants the lift between here and the ground floor. Sherlock's hands are going _everywhere_ and Lestrade is getting dizzy again. Hasn't seen Sherlock this excited about anything before. Serial killers excepted, of course. Who knew clothes shopping could lead to _this_? Might even get to like it, Lestrade thinks.

"Need to get a taxi back to your flat," Sherlock says, rather breathlessly. "Had an idea about that speech of yours. Want to try it out on you."

_Fuck._

Lestrade decides he still hates clothes shopping. Especially with Sherlock.

He has an uneasy feeling that speechmaking with Sherlock is going to be just as bad.


End file.
